


Untitled (corruption's an old song)

by korasami



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, This made me really uncomfortable to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korasami/pseuds/korasami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: Jefferson/Madison/Hamilton in the room and that presidential pressure to deliverrrr. How does the sausage get made?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled (corruption's an old song)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Misterracoon (Tumblr)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Misterracoon+%28Tumblr%29).



> Kind of in the same universe as "Pax Romana" and "But Nobody Talks (About Jefferson)", except it's with the Hamilton musical characters. Originally posted on my [Tumblr](http://okieriete.tumblr.com/tagged/my+fic).
> 
> EDIT: I got a request asking me to tag it for consent issues. I do not ever want to write something with dubious consent for personal reasons, and while I wrote it as being consensual, I realize other people might not see it that way. Therefore, I have rewritten parts of it to clarify how I saw the scene. Anon, if you still feel that it's not suitable, please let me know.

“Hamilton. Thank you for coming.”

Alexander looked down at the two men before him. Madison, whom had spoken, met his gaze with an alarming intensity; Jefferson, whom had not, sat staring off to the side, lost in his own thoughts. Clearly the latter had hosted the whole affair with slight reluctance, or else was not in his comfort zone. With his intimate knowledge of both Alexander’s political and personal tactics, Madison was definitely had the upper-hand when it came to the power play between the Democratic-Republicans.

Cautious, Alexander gave Madison a slow nod, then a calculated smile. “Madison. Likewise.” He flicked his eyes over to other man. “Jefferson.”

There was no response, but Alexander didn’t expect one.

“Please sit, Secretary Hamilton,” Madison said, standing as he did, and gesturing with his head at the lone empty seat.

Draped in a thick, dark fabric, the table was small. Circular. Alexander sat down as an equal. One Alexander had pushed his chair in, Madison did the same.

“I need you to support the assumption plan.”

There. Alexander had laid out what he was there for. Sweet and concise, as he had promised. Madison leaned forward, hands on the table.

“And what do you expect to do for us in return?”

_1787\. The year was suddenly 1787._

Alexander gulped. His palms were damp. “What is it that you want?”

Shrugging, Madison leaned back into his chair. Jefferson, still not paying Alexander any mind, gave a small sniff. “What is it that _you_ want?”

Taken aback, Alexander blinked. “I’m sorry—?”

Next to him, Jefferson coughed. He raised his drink into the air, then drained it. Only then did Alexander notice that his own goblet was bone-dry; Jefferson, snapping his fingers, drew Alexander’s tunneled attention to the several nameless slaves slinking in the shadows. Alexander’s eyes narrowed, but refused himself the right to speak out. _Do not upset these men._

“What our esteemed brother here means to ask, Hamilton, is if you’re hungry,” he paused, deliberately, definitively—"For something to eat.“

Alexander glanced nervously at the hands filling Jefferson’s goblet, then at the hands holding it.

“Yes,” he found himself saying. “Please.”

He had been addressing the slave, but it was Jefferson who spoke next.

“You heard the man, James. I’m sure his _foreign_ tastes will be content with anything you make for him.”

Typical. Alexander’s jaw clenched. “Jefferson…” he growled. Smirking, the man took a casual sip of his drink.

“I’ve heard stories of how excellent your French is, Hamilton. James here is a superb chef versed in fine French cuisine—that is I intended to imply, _of course_.”

“Of course,” Alexander spat back. “Though I have never been to the country, I’m sure whatever you prepare will surpass even the finest chefs in Paris.”

There was something empowering at Jefferson and Madison’s clear discomfort at Alexander’s directing of the conversation towards James, their perceived subordinate. This made Alexander’s smile all the more genuine.

“Where were we?” he asked as the slave James left. Seconds of silence passed before any man spoke.

“Allow me to cut to the chase,” Jefferson said at long last. “In return for our support, you will get New York to vote yea for the proposal to move the temporary capital to Pennsylvania, and to build a permanent one along the Potomac.”

 _You should have expected this, you should have expected this, you should have—_ “Never.”

Jefferson cackled. “Very well, Hamilton. Have it your way.”

Alexander slammed his hands down onto the soft surface of the table. “Damn you, Jefferson. You know very well I can’t have anything my way unless you support the assumption plan!”

The infuriating smirk of Jefferson, his snide demeanor, was too much. “This isn’t between you and me, boy. I know nothing of domestic affairs; this is all beyond my reach. Madison’s the one you’ll have to negotiate with!”

Next to him, next to both of them, Madison nodded. His voice was that of a suave, masculine Venus. “Alexander, listen.” _Dammit_. “This is very important to me, as I know your Report on Public Credit is to you.” Madison, wicked man, placed a hand over Alexander’s. “If there’s anything I can do to _sweeten the deal, please_ , let me know.”

In the back of Alexander’s mind, he heard a drawn-out “what?” in the familiar drawl of Jefferson’s disbelief, but all he could focus on was Madison’s warm palm. Alexander stammered something, maybe Madison’s name, maybe the acknowledgement that he did indeed want Madison to _sweeten the deal_ , maybe something else, and Madison invited him open with a delicate smile.

“Please, Alexander, we both believe we know what’s best for the country. Now, what will you do to convince me you’re right?”

Alexander’s head was swimming with contradictions, with ghosts of memories of the past, with Aaron Burr’s incessant mental-reminders to talk less. Low-lidded eyes to their overlayed hands, Alexander managed to return Madison’s smile. He didn’t think it looked anything but sleazy, seductive, though he tried to feign something else.

He wasn’t sure what.

“Do your worst, James Madison.”

What followed next would _never_ leave the room.

Hamilton allowed himself to be gripped tightly by the back of his head, allowed himself to be pulled forward, allowed himself to be kissed by Madison’s angry mouth. He responded with autonomy, with half-sincere passion, with shut eyes. He could pretend they were elsewhere, in some small tavern’s rental room—years younger and less corrupted by faction politics and verbal abuses—or he could enjoy the moment in the present, enjoy the feeling of Madison's warm, dark hands against his face, his lips making soundless welcomes against his own lips, ever-deep eyes staring into his soul even through his own closed eyes. Yes, he was back to simpler times, but he was merely brining the simpler times to the present, simpler times which never ought to have ended. The familiarity of Madison's affections were something Alexander had sorely missed, and although the shift in their relationship over the past few years was evident in the roughness of their intimacy, Hamilton wanted it more than anything he had ever done before. That Jefferson was next to them, soundless with shock, neither registered nor mattered.

“Stay seated,” Madison ordered, breathless, as he broke the kiss, standing himself. Alexander found it difficult not to grab him by the cravat and pull him back close. To Jefferson, Madison said: “You can join or you can leave. I don’t care either way. At the very least, dismiss your slaves. Secretary Hamilton is the only _mulatto_ I’ll be seeing to tonight.”

Alexander’s eyes widened. “I’m not—”

“Shut up,” Madison said, voice holding a sort of affection, and sent a halfhearted backhand to Alexander’s cheek. It didn't hurt, but Alexander shivered. “I don’t have to do this for you, you know.”

Frowning, Alexander looked up at him. “Are you doing this for you, or for me?”

There was a pause where Madison tapped his finger to his chin. “Do you plan on supporting our proposal to move the capital?”

Without thinking, “Yes.”

Madison grinned. “Then it is _entirely_ for me.”

Alexander shut his eyes, not be able to hide his growing smile, and turned his body away from Jefferson, towards Madison, but Madison made a noise of disapproval.

Eyes still closed, Alexander heard a gasp from Jefferson. “James, are you sure this is…?” Jefferson began. A strangled noise. Then, “Goodness, maaan! Keep your pants on.”

Madison snorted; his voice was light, conversational. “For some reason, I thought you wouldn’t mind.” There was a pause. "Alexander, do you mind?"

The sincerity of his "not at all" couldn't be greater. 

Whatever Jefferson’s reaction might have been was drowned out by Madison sitting on the table in front of Alexander, legs spread; and when Alexander felt his head guided forward, he let his eyes open, and fell into the familiar motions of a time long past.

*

(To note: Jefferson didn’t actively participate. He did, however, give a running commentary of the entire action.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not writing anything more to this.


End file.
